Crack of Dawn

Despite being financed by his talented transgender prostitutes, a gritty, crack-addicted pimp unwillingly accepts the help of a vampire in exchange for surrendering his body and crack infused blood to satisfy the vampires own dark addictions.

“Yeah,” He finally looked up at her. “Look, I don’t give a damn if you don’t believe me. Frankly, I prefer if you don’t.” He pushed himself off the wall with his heel.

“Can you tell me more about this vampire?” she asked gazing hard at him as if it might bring him back down to his seat.

“On the real, I’d rather not talk about him.” He rung his hands together and his knuckles turned white.

“Mr. Sanders, I’m sorry, but we have to. We’ve allowed you to put this off for weeks. We have no choice but to move forward. That’s where all of this begins.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then where does it begin, Mr. Sanders?” She leaned back and straightened her shoulders, challenging him with her eyes.

He cursed under his breath and shook his head. This white lady didn’t have a clue! He knew she wouldn’t believe a word he said. What was the point of all of this talking bullshit? He’d do anything just to get the hell out of here. Actually, this place wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t crazy, just like the other richies in here. The people were decent enough; he even played pool with them and watched football in the entertainment room. What kind of punishment was this?

Everyone could pick from at least three different desserts a night and they had cable in the main room. He didn’t feel any racism from the majority of the white folks either. It was all about money and everyone here had it. Money obviously dissolved any racial barrier that could have been. If you have money, you’re in the club. Obviously you’re rich enough or know someone powerful enough to get into this place. And just about everyone else was white save for a few hip-hop rappers with distorted priorities and a couple black business folks who thought they could get away with the same stuff some of the white folks did. They all either committed some petty assault or got caught up in white collar crimes, claimed insanity and somehow ended up here. Fine, he’d tell her. He’d lay it out for her, raw and with no bullshit for her to pick at with her little fucking degree. He’d be damned if he was going to sugar coat anything for her. She looked like the type to scream at the sight of a spider or even at picking up a dirty bucket, like those two rich blond girls on that country reality show. But this was her fault for wanting this, for forcing him. If she wanted it, he’d give it to her. He’d tell it to her; his story. He decided to get comfortable and poured himself into the large translucent couch with the expensive trim, like Remy Martin into a crystal glass.